Chapter 6 Birdhouses
BIRDHOUSES
Going after his money is not about independence, it’s about security. Don’t cut off her nose to spite her face.
So proud of her for meeting a lawyer.
She needs to tell the neighbor’s husband already. Mitch has a right to know.
Emma sounds clueless. How is she going to support children on minimum wage?
Don’t make her a martyr for the sake of pride.
Can’t wait to see what she uncovers!
Eliana stared out the window, watching the branches of the oak tree in their backyard sway in the wind as she thought about the comments her last chapter had stirred up.
Though many of the readers loved her female lead, many others thought her goals were unrealistic.
It echoed a lot of what the lawyer had told her two days ago.
“Getting a job is the first step in supporting yourself. But it will be a lot more challenging than simply receiving a paycheck. Life is expensive, Eliana.”
“I know,” she’d argued. “Things have been tight before. I know how to be frugal.”
“Actually, I don’t think you do understand.
If you go it alone, you’ll need to be able to prove stability.
A safe home. Utilities. Insurance. A reliable vehicle.
You won’t be able to achieve this and provide proper care for two pre-teens on minimum wage.
The judge will see this. You’ll either need to find a hell of a job, or we’ll need to discuss alimony. ”
“No”, Eliana had answered, defiant.
“Explain why you’re so against it.”
“I just . . . I can’t depend on him to take care of us.
It was a mistake to do it before, and I learn from my mistakes.
And I have a suspicion, one I can’t prove just yet, that I think we may not be doing so well financially.
He doesn’t tell me much, but I’ve noticed some .
. . signs. I want . . . No, I need to depend on myself. ”
“Alright, let’s table the topic of alimony. But about your assets . . .”
“I told you, I don’t have any.”
“Did you sign a prenup?”
“No.”
“Then you’re entitled to a share, if not an equal division, of the marital assets.”
“But . . .” Eliana frowned. “It’s all in his name.”
Richard had simply shrugged. “And? He may have paid for the car, but did he pay you to run household errands? To take his children to and from school? To transport groceries? Did he pay you for the decade you spent providing free childcare? For maintaining the home in his name? For housekeeping? For cooking? For the emotional support? What about the opportunity cost of what you’ve sacrificed to provide all of those services for free?
” Richard shook his head in disgust. “Your husband may have paid for that house, but you were the one who made it a home. Dividing assets is not based solely on financial contributions, Eliana. Marriage is a partnership, and every kind of contribution, financial or not, is taken into account in the courtroom.”
It was a lot to chew on. A different perspective. She’d been thinking of everything as Jesse’s, solely because he paid for it—but would any of it be Jesse’s in the first place if she hadn’t been there to support him? If she hadn’t put in the years working so that he could get his degree first?
“Isn’t this a little childish?” Zoey whined, zig-zagging a line of blue paint down the side of her birdhouse.
“I like it,” Abby countered.
Zoey stuck out her tongue, and Abby shrugged in response, unbothered.
“It’s just for fun, Zoey.” Eliana coughed to cover the sound of her laugh. “I saw these birdhouses were on a big sale, and I’ve always wanted one to put up for that bird that nests on the porch every year.”
Abby nodded. “That’s nice.”
Zoey sighed, rolling her eyes. “Then why didn’t you paint them?” she grumbled.
“Because I love my daughters so much and want to see their beautiful artwork every time I look outside.” Eliana eyed Zoey’s birdhouse and its explosion of color, looking like it’d been involved in a paintball war, “Even if it looks like that.”
Abby snorted, keeping her eyes focused squarely on her own project and carefully drawing dozens of tiny daisies along the edges.
“Excuse me.” Zoey waved a hand over her birdhouse, “This is a work of art.”
“From a piece of work,” Abby mumbled.
Zoey flicked her paintbrush across the table, spraying Abby with droplets of blue paint, and Abby sat up, stunned.
She reached a hand up, threading her fingers through the auburn strands of her hair, and then stared at her hand, now speckled with blue.
With a speed unparalleled, she flicked her own brush, showering Zoey in yellow.
A moment later, Eliana dropped her head into her hands as a full paint war broke out between the girls.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Eliana called out, slapping a hand on top of the paint-water cup that Zoey was preparing to launch. “Showers! Now!”
The girls groaned, trudging away, but just before they reached the stairs, she caught wind of a shared giggle and felt a smile twist her lips. They’d never been able to hold grudges against one another.
Looking back at the table, she sighed at the mess, then turned away . . . she’d Magic-Eraser it later. In the meantime, she pulled her shopping bags out from under the kitchen sink and got to work.
The first step was to carefully align and secure the cameras to the back wall of the birdhouses, the lens pointed toward the hole, and superglue the top shut.
Then she dragged a chair outside and hung the colorful projects high in the air, one on the front porch and one on the back.
She had a third camera, but she held off on placing it in the bedroom as she’d originally intended—opting instead for a spot in the living room, inside a hanging fern.
“There’s a reasonable expectation of privacy in one’s own home. Even if your husband is cheating, in the law’s eyes, you can’t film him in a space as private as a bedroom or a bathroom,” the lawyer had said, sucking the wind straight from her sails.
And yet, she still slipped the audio device under the edge of the bed. Just to know.
The GPS tracker went back under the sink to hide in his car when he returned home.
Finished, she walked out to the mailbox to gather the mail. Dropping the stack of letters on the end of the counter, she set a pot to boil.
She must’ve been louder than she’d intended with the pots, because Zoey called from down the hall, “Mom? Whatcha making?”
“Nothing!” Eliana yelled back. “Just creating my own tea,” she mumbled as she held the first credit card statement over the boiling water.
“Okay. Create me some too!” came the reply a moment before Zoey’s door snapped shut once more.
Eliana shook her head. Those ears were a damn superpower.
Focusing on the task at hand, she slipped her fingers under the edge of the envelope and pulled the statement free, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the lines of charges.
Her blood ran cold at the expenses. Four thousand dollars spent in that one Elliston weekend.
Two thousand on one trip to the jewelry store.
Six hundred dollars at a restaurant, just two weeks ago.
He’d been working late. And the list continued.
Her gaze flitted to the bottom as she flipped to the second page and .
. . froze. Finally noticing the total balance.
The overdue notices.
The interest charges.
It didn’t make any sense. These kinds of numbers should’ve already sunk their ship. They should be on the street. How was he paying for this?
Then Eliana’s eyes found the prior month’s payments, and her blood ran cold. She may not have copies of his check stubs, but she knew his income was nowhere close to what these numbers suggested.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Eliana snapped pictures of the statements and then folded them back into the envelope, sealing it with a fresh adhesive.
She stacked the letters neatly on the edge of the counter and, with only the slightest shake to her hands, she pulled three mugs down from the cabinet and began prepping the tea.
She needed access to the accounts. All of them. She needed a sounding board. She needed a friend.
With a sigh, Eliana stepped back from the steeping mugs and pulled out her phone. There was only one place she could find all three of those things in one violent, proficient package.
It was time to visit Clem.